


Butterfly

by Blownwish



Category: Loveless
Genre: Backstory, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 01:06:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1207150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blownwish/pseuds/Blownwish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The idea of being indistinguishable was synonymous with being forgettable, and this was what he wanted to escape from when he decided to paint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Butterfly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mythnlynx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mythnlynx/gifts).



Once upon a time there was a young painter. He was not the best painter, but he was not the worst. And while most painters learn to live with this dychotamy (given that most will not be the singular best nor the singular worst, but within the fluid category between these two) this particular young painter could not. The idea of being indistinguishable was synonymous with being forgettable, and this was what he wanted to escape from when he decided to paint.

It was not always this way. He was not always one of hundreds of University art students roaming the linoleum halls wearing one of hundreds of sweater turtlenecks, toting one of hundreds of canvases brimming with mock Pollock sensibility. He used to be the odd one. The only boy with paint stained clothes at his high school. The weirdo who was actually married and really did have a kid- look, no ears, no tail!- and bills. Yes- once, once upon a time he was strange. Special. Unique. And he thought he would keep being that way with his paints and his brushes and his art. But by the time university ruined his dream it was too late. He would have given it up but it was too late and he was one of many art students, one of many turtleneck sweaters, one of many mock-Pollocks.

He was not the kind to suffer. He refused to feel any sort of self pity. His paintings were unremarkable. His technique just a shade away from anonymous. Typical and bland, that’s what he thought when he saw the finished product next to the rest, one next to the other in an assembly line. His wife did not care. She just showed him their daughter, a little girl with out ears. He touched her chin. She looked away and refused to call him Daddy.

Once upon a time, he was a little boy. A little boy with dreams. He was sure he had to be a dreamer, even though he can’t recall, he is sure he wanted to live a remarkable life. What was he living, now? Everything remarkable was something he could not remember. Like the butterfly on his neck, he had no idea where it came from. He was a kid when he woke up with no recollection of loosing his ears, or where the tattoo came from. All he knew was that he had forgotten. Forgot himself and no one else seemed to remember who he was before. Or care.

Once upon a time, there was a university student. He stood out from the rest. Not because he was all that talented. He was too loud. Too carefree. Too happy. Too many earrings, too many lolipops and off color jokes. He was flamboyant, unafraid of flirting with anyone. Man or woman, he did not mind, as long as they were beautiful, like he was.

One day he was painting something that couldn’t hold a candle to himself. The reds were dull compared to his conversation. The yellows faded next to his smile. He was the artist and the art. Any one with half a brain could see that. The tools and canvas were just props. And he was being appreciated appropriately: combed-back girls and beautiful men in camelhair and tweed watched him, noted the new earring, the quick look over his shoulder, the smile. “Friends,” he always called them friends, “don’t be shy, if you like what you see.”

He remembers that day because he saw it on display at the university later that year. The top painting by the best artist. It was not the classroom he found reproduced. Nor his face. Or even his body, though he would have been thrilled. No, it was a traditional Japanese rendition of the butterfly on the back of his neck, perched on a reed of grass. It was golden and it was beautiful and it was unforgettable.

He stood there, shivering from the Tokyo cold on a December morning, pole-axed as the sleet melted off his boots. “Who did this?” He asked no one, anyone, fidgited with his yellow turtleneck sweater, and felt as if he was itching all over. “Who is this Agatsuma person?” He looked everywhere, as if the crowd staring at him would step back like a wave and produce the artist like a prized pearl from the ocean. But they just stared. And he just kept itching, feeling as if the butterfly on the back of his neck was going to peel away and leave him for this Agatsuma, whoever he was, and render him anonymous, again.

Once upon a time there was a frightened young man. What was this person like, this Agatsuma? This person was able to capture the essence of what made a person shine, so he had to be powerful. Insightful. And so skilled. It was enough to make him shiver. People wondered what had happened to him. He used to be so effervescent. He used to shine. He wanted to tell him that shiny feeling was up in the university museum- a captured butterfly. But they would have thought he was crazy, so he just said he was under the weather. Yes, that sounded better. Less concerning. More... anonymous.

Damn.

After some time he had decided he was tired of being just another artist. He wanted to become his own art, again, to shine. So he promised himself a meeting with this Agatsuma person. And, as if by magic, the very next morning after this resolution was made, a note was at his doorstep.

He opened it, already knowing who sent it. Who else would understand the importance of satin finish paper? Or a good ink for the pulp to soak up? Or write such beautiful script? Only an artist. Only one artist. The best artist. He shivered when he read the invitation. “Meet me,” it said. No need for a signature. No need for a time or place. Stating the obvious was unnecessary.

When he came to the museum, when he turned the corner, when the marble floor took him to that tall, lonely man, he knew he was already glowing, again. He never saw anyone so beautiful look so sad. He turned his head and that long hair brushed against Kio’s cheek, as if tracing the lines of his face.

“Agatsuma, I presume?”

He just adjusted his glasses and nodded.

“Why?” Kio held up the note, though they both knew he was pointing at the painting.

“Because I like your butterfly.”

“Enough to take it?” Kio knew it was a strange thing to say.

“All artists are thieves." He smiled, and Kio felt himself shine. God, this man was beautiful. “You probably shouldn’t get too close to me.”

“Will you steal me?” His heart began to beat too fast. His body was too close, and his hands were already touching his.

“No.” He stepped back. And the smile was gone.

And then he sparked like fireworks. Pointed and pouted. If he had wings they’d be spread and he would be radiant. “Ah, you don’t want it anymore when it’s given freely.”

The artist walked away, leaving Kio to shine even brighter than before, beautiful and angry. Finally, for the first time in his life, he remembered his rage. It was something he had forgotten. And it was amazing.

Once upon a time there was a butterfly. He did not need anyone to remember him anymore. He just wanted to remember himself.


End file.
